


if i lay here, would you lie with me?

by palladium



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:57:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palladium/pseuds/palladium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam has something they don't: he sees millions of brightly coloured lights, blending in with the dawn of the day, dark of the night, rise of the morning; he hears as much as they do, sleeps as much as they can, and goes on with life like he's imagined it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if i lay here, would you lie with me?

**Author's Note:**

> alternate summary: liam is homeless.
> 
> warnings:
> 
>   * if you're squirmish about the alternate word for gay that starts with an f, i'm sorry. (it appears once somewhere in the middle) 
>   * a chunk of this doesn't make sense + hastily written (worded weird) 
>   * self-hate 
>   * uncomfortable thoughts/feelings 
>   * again, most of this doesn't make a lot of sense 
> 

> 
> i feel super nervous posting this because nothing in this really makes sense to me (i just rambled and wrote this on a whim) but i just thought posting it would be better than leaving it in my drafts forever.
> 
> title from chasing cars by snow patrol.

It's the tiny glimmers of various colours wandering in the night that lures Liam in. Buildings of all sizes surrounding him, so small and fragile and dismissive, him, just  _one_  of seven point billion others. The cars drive past him, headlights searching in the daze of the night, sloshing through puddles of rain left from the day before. Liam watches, watches the vehicle fly by and he's left alone again, huddled inside his windbreaker that really isn't enough when he notices the chilly breeze the car leaves behind. 

He looks far to his left, waiting as the traffic light turns yellow, red,  _green_. Watches as the cars slow, stop,  _go_. Watches as people buzz and chatter through the darkness, only supported by the faint glow of small boutiques and shops, and streetlights lit up to the sky; shuffling their way down the space of the sidewalk, either alone (just like  _him_ , he thinks, smiling), an arm around another, or laughing in a small group. He watches, shifting his eyes, the light flickering past, the flashing signs of stores nearby, dozen of assorted coloured lights, alternating between the roof of a house, warm and cozy, flashing on and off like they're sharing a secret; having a delighted conversation and Liam feels as if he's interrupting, just staring.

It's rather breathtaking.

Sometimes he feels as if it's all a blessing. Being born to this world and being able to experience the silence of the night (which is never silent at all, from what he knows), being able to enjoy all of it and being able to keep it to himself. There's a voice at the back of his head that mutters " _selfish_ " at him, and he's proud of it, proud that he can be called selfish because he's got the dim of technology to ease him through it, encouraging him.

He briefly wonders what it's like, being inside a home, surrounded by family and smiles and chatter of good talk, breathing the same air and sharing Christmas with someone; wonders what it's like to be in a bed, all warm and inviting, welcoming, comfortable, and to be able to wake up with the light of the sun casting shadows on the sheets, bright and blinding his eyes through the mask of the thin curtains and the glass of the windows. Liam smiles at the thought, happy that people are able to live like that, that people  _can_ ; that it's normal to eat with your family and share the same food (and eat on a regular basis, because that's what they call healthy, apparently), that it's normal to go to bed and wake up in bed in the morning, that it's normal to have friends and family and someone you love to live your life with. 

It must be ravishing to have, but Liam has something they don't: he sees millions of brightly coloured lights, blending in with the dawn of the day, dark of the night, rise of the morning; he hears as much as they do, sleeps as much as they can, and goes on with life like he's imagined it.

He isn't drowned with love or friends, laughter and joy and  _money_ (which people claim to be so important and yet, Liam doesn't quite understand how  _paper_  can solve all the undying problems in the world, but he guesses that's their secret he's not supposed to know), he doesn't have a bed, can't drown in the soft of pillows on a rough day, nor can he afford to suffocate himself in scented sheets that promise to keep him warm; but he's got  _this_ , he's got the night, the lights, cardboard boxes of all different sorts, newspaper spread and enough to cover, leftover food from weeks ago and it's been able to last until now. Liam thinks it's enough. Liam thinks it might be too much, because he can't possibly ask for more.

On some nights, like tonight, while the weather is particularly " _dreadful_ " (but still, Liam doesn't think it's as bad as everyone claims it to be; snow is beautiful and it makes his skin tingle, rain is light and relaxing, like music and notes dancing in the air, and thunder and lightning sends sparks in his body because it brings more light and rumbles that he can't decipher why it sounds so  _perfect_ to him) and he's still huddled deep inside his thin windbreaker he'd found many long nights ago, he moves to a different spot, dragging his belongings along with him, into another corner of a different street, and the new scene and new buildings, new alleys and new stores, new people and new  _lights_ ; welcome him in, luring him and pulling him into its arms, hugging Liam in a way he hadn't known was possible before.

He smiles; his hair tangled and his clothes disoriented, his skin pale and shivering, his legs thin and his arms weak; because he's always wanted this. Always had it. He leans back against the cool of a brick wall, wet with precipitation, curls into himself with arms around his knees and face buried into the material of his windbreaker and closes his eyes, hoping to dream of the new flicker of blue, green, red, pink, surrounding him and giving him the warmth he wants.

"You don't have a small tin or something?"

The voice sounds unfamiliar, new, and it makes Liam open his eyes, looking up at a figure hovering above him. He meets another pair, (warm and loving,) charcoal and  _coffee that tastes perfect without milk_ , as he heard one say. Liam blinks, and the stranger blinks back. "I've got some change here—" the stranger reaches into his pocket of his jeans, the rough fabric a brilliant blue in Liam's eyes, "and you look like you could use it." He ('s got a wonderful smile) gives Liam a small smile, just a slight lift of his lips, and Liam knows this feeling.

It's the same feeling, bursting inside the space of his chest, spreading into his arms and legs and through the veins of his body; it's the same feeling when he spends a quiet night alone, in the streets and surrounded by the welcome of assorted colours. That familiar burn, the good one, from somewhere inside him that makes him have to take an extra breath, because he feels like he's elated and full and complete and like he _belongs_. Like he matters and that he fits someplace other than in the calm of the night.

(He wonders if it's strange, that that feeling can also come from someone just like him. Just from a slight facial expression of an unknown face that probably meant nothing but a common manner.)

He takes a while to try and stumble out what he'll say in his mind because hasn't spoken in _months_ ; he hasn't got anyone to speak to, but the mind conversations he has every night with the faint assemble of lights.

"I—" he starts, and he gasps a little, frowning, because he can't believe that's the sound of his own voice. "I— It's— It's fine, really. I don't really have my mind set on pick-pocketing your change." And he doesn't know if he's supposed to smile, doesn't know if he's  _allowed_ ; because he hasn't spoken to the lingering passers-by he sees wandering out in the streets every night, hasn't had a chance to open his mouth but hide a smile at every look he gets passed in his direction.

Liam guesses it was okay for him to smile, because the stranger bursts out laughing. "That's a new one. I've never heard that before." And he sounds so genuinely amused and it's all because of _Liam_ and that makes his stomach flip and light fireworks because he's never made someone _laugh_ before and it's a really, really overwhelming feeling. "And it wouldn't be pick-pocketing if I offer it to you." The stranger (with eyelashes that brush against his cheek every time he blinks, which Liam can't stop staring at, really) crinkles his nose in some way that makes Liam's stomach twist and he thinks it's maybe because he hasn't eaten in a couple of days, but he curls his knees closer to his chest and smiles more deeply, careful not to laugh because he's not sure if that's something he should be able to join in on.

He blinks as the stranger laughs and looks at him, his eyes kind and his smile contagious, hair slick up and clothes that offer warmth; he isn't like any other person Liam's ever seen through the hours of the night, he doesn't look precautious or apprehensive or  _intimidated_ that it's  _Liam_  he's talking to,  _Liam_ he's smiling at,  _Liam_  who has never slept in the depths of warmth and comfort (nothing except the lull of the rain or the dim of streets), " _loved_ " by family and friends, drank this thing called  _macchiato_ (which people claim to be foamy and bittersweet) or ate this thing called  _crème brûlée_. Liam, who falls asleep to the sound of engines speeding through the night, footsteps at his ear, wind brushing against his exposed skin, lights that guided him enough to call this his home.

He guesses he must have looked shocked to death to hear the stranger laugh like Liam's an old friend ( _friend_ , the word itself radiates warmth, Liam wishes he could experience it), or he must have been just plain lucky to meet someone as kind as him (but he doesn't know if he deserves it, his mind whispers that he's already selfish enough for being able to breathe and live and watch lights flicker through the deep of the city), because—

"Is it alright if I join you?" and Liam tries not to stare long enough to scare him away, but he's surprised and there's a sudden spark of something happy inside him and he definitely doesn't want that to fade out; so he nods, feeling the wind toss his hair around like Liam said the wrong answer.

The stranger shuffles and sits beside Liam, close enough that Liam can feel the heat from his body, see the features of his face ( _perfect_ ,  _perfect_ ,  _perfect_ , like Liam knew it'd be). He sits close enough that Liam almost forgets they're two strangers in the night, two strangers who haven't met until just minutes ago.

The silence blankets Liam's ears for a while, and he distracts himself by concentrating the overlook he has in the spot he's chosen. His leg had fallen asleep before him and he doesn't bother trying to wake it, just focuses on the important things; and right now, the important thing is to let the sounds of what his ears can catch to comfort him, tell him with kind eyes and a smiling face and a hand all too familiar, held out in front of him so he can reach and touch, let it let him know he isn't alone (although the thought of being alone doesn't at all bother him much). 

It seems like what's been an eternity (and Liam snaps his eyes open because he had been nodding off by the faint rain prickling his cheeks) before the stranger says, barely audible enough for Liam to hear, "Isn't it beautiful?" and Liam isn't sure if the his eyes are on him, but he nods anyway, because he doesn't know what the voice is referring to, but he wants to just be able to hear the sound of it again, thick and rich and soothing and so  _close_  to him. Liam smiles into the bare of his knees when the voice continues, a little less weary this time, "The lights and the streets, the quiet hum of cars and rain, people walking by... sometimes it feels a little guilty to have all of this, something so precious and fragile, something that isn't meant for me to look at."

And Liam feels as if he's bursting at the seams, everything he had always wanted to say but never could, no one to listen and no one who cared, but here was someone, here was a random stranger who decided to sit down  _with_  Liam and talk to him; as if there wasn't a single different thing about him. He inhales sharply, oxygen filling his lungs like the excitement taking over his body, taking over his heart and his soul,  _mind_ , everything; because  _this_  is what he's been doing since he last remembered,  _this_ is what he knows best,  _this_ is his life and become his home, and  _this_  is the only thing he never wants to let go of. Lose sight of. _Forget_.

_This_ , is the only thing he's ever had. And that's strangely enough for Liam, because Liam doesn't know  _how_  to live without it.

The stranger (Liam doesn't like how he has to call him that because it sounds bitter) exhales deeply, almost like he's tired but isn't able to sleep, and doesn't say anything for a while, just nods his head and stares deep at Liam, studying him and frowning at his figure. Liam squirms under his stare because everything is so unfamiliar and new and he's not sure how to make it understandable. (He wants to talk, wants to open his mouth and say "I love the lights and the streets and the quiet hum of cars and rain and the people walking by," but he feels hesitant to speak because he isn't sure if he's worth the while, isn't sure if the voice of his mind is as important as just keeping the presence beside him to _stay_ with him, while looking at the things he loves.) The stranger shifts, hand still in his pocket, and Liam tries to look up at return the gaze, but he can't because he doesn't know if it's rude or if that's how people communicate, so he doesn't.

He doesn't know how long it's been; time always passes quicker than he likes it to, and just before he fades out the world into his dreams, there's a sound of metal shifting against one another, like keys that dangle from a finger, and Liam jolts back awake.

The sound of an exhale escapes above Liam, and Liam blinks. The wind's tickling against his cheek and seeping through his jacket, so he attempts to hug his knees closer to himself, slipping his shaking hands inside the cuffs. There's sounds of shifting, foot to foot (and that makes Liam realize that the stranger stood up from the spot next to him, because it's cold and  _empty_  again, and that's the first time he's suddenly felt that way), and more metal disrupting the silence of the night, and finally: "Do you feel cold?"

Liam shakes his head, but the wind seems to betray him again, blowing past and creating shivers along his skin.

The stranger seems to breathe in his lie, and Liam feels exposed. He refuses to look beside him and catch those warm, burning, charcoal coffee eyes again, but he feels himself slipping, blinking glances—

The stranger slips something onto his shoulders, heavy but warm, and it makes Liam's head swim when he's surrounded by a smell so intriguing and comforting.

"You don't want to come down with something. I'm not sure if that's enough, but it should be much warmer than what you're wearing." The stranger smiles, light and friendly; and suddenly, Liam can't keep his mouth closed, can't stop trembling, can't stop his eyes from _watering_ ; just at the brim of _overflowing_ — (And he doesn't know _why_ , doesn't know why blinking just makes it worse.)

He cringes a little, face twisting in a frown and lowering his head to maybe help the tears from falling (doesn't know why they're there in the first place), and reaches for the jacket with shaking hands. He gasps when he touches it and then his mind screams "you're getting it dirty with your filthy _hands_ " and he drops it, muttering an apology and tries reaching for it again, but he knows that he shouldn't, knows that he'll ruin it and he _can't_ repay that.

The stranger crouches down again, eye-level, and Liam twists away from his deep gaze, saying, "I can't."

No one's ever spared him a glance longer than a few seconds. No one's laughed with him or stared at him like they cared. No one has ever sat next to him and _talked_ to him like he was interesting; like he was worth their time.

He's ignored it. Ignored the laughter sent his way, insults crumbling out of snark lips and nasty glares. Raucous comments and maybe a coin flicked onto his leg, and many who walked off the pavement to keep their distance from him. He's gotten used to it all. And frankly, he hadn't cared what they did; because if that's what makes them more comfortable, then so be it. If that was their attitude, so be it. They don't get to experience the life he has. Doesn't get to see the lights shining bright through the rustling night; doesn't get to see the different glows or the different cars, hundreds of people in various outfits, all in a single hour.

He's alone, but it isn't a negative thing.

The only help he's ever gotten from, the only help he's ever needed, was the comfort the million scattered lights gave him. Smoothing the shivers down his spine, talking to him and smiling at him. And he found himself smiling back.

But this stranger, defied everything rule he was used to. He's smiled at him, laughed _because_ of him, shared a small moment with him side by side, and now, here, he's offering what Liam could never accept in a million light years.

And his voice, calm and alluring, "It's rather cold tonight, mate," and the way he says " _mate_ " as if Liam's his friend and someone he knew and cared for, _everything_ makes Liam's head spin, his chest tighten, his—

There's a hand on his shoulder, heavy and firm, and the fingers tighten enough to make Liam wince. "Oh sorry, sorry," the stranger says, relaxing his grip in a heartbeat and rubbing a soothing thumb along Liam's collarbone through his windbreaker. Liam's cheeks are wet, and he doesn't know why.

The stranger picks up his jacket with his other hand, and he folds it at Liam's feet, flickering up his gaze back to him again, fiery and determined and gentle. "Mate," Liam tenses, shifting his gaze, "lads don't let lads come down with sickness. And that's bound to happen—"

Liam can't stop himself before he realizes it; "You don't have to care." His mind laughs at him, spiting; ("sounding pitiful isn't going to get you anywhere in life, haven't you learned from when you got kicked out? It was because you weren't _normal_ , Liam; you're a _fag_. Give it up.")

And that makes him shut his eyes, willing himself to just _stop_.

And then it's quiet.

Liam knows he shouldn't open his eyes; the stranger left, of course he would, there wasn't any logical reason in the first place to why he's _stay_ with _Liam_.

He doesn't open his eyes. But he realizes he doesn't have to. He isn't alone.

The voice is firm, soft, light, kind; just above a small whisper—

"If I don't care, who would?"

Liam opens his eyes, snapping to meet the stranger's gaze; breathtaking and _concerning_. He blinks with no particular pattern, fast and slow and matching with his pulse irregularly. He breathes. His heart clenches.

It isn't said rudely, crude or impolite; just something about his tone makes Liam feel weaker and weaker, exposed; and he thinks, laughing bitterly,

(" _No one_.")

There's many ways to interpret the reply. Lots of ways. Ways that might not even refer to Liam in this case. But it's all he's got; all he's got to hold on to, only thing that was close enough and reached out further than the normal flicker of lights, screaming " _I'm here to help, take my hand_ ," and offering to break Liam's fall (he'd never even thought there would be anything, much less anyone, who'd catch him when he tripped over the edge long ago).

Liam's silence and shocked manner probably sparks a chance in the stranger to say something (which, doesn't make sense at all no matter which way Liam puts it in) because he smiles, deep and warm,

"Come on. My flatmate's gone home for a month's holiday." 

Liam's heart stops.

It's sudden, _too_ sudden; a breath past air and words jumbled up to make no sense for the two seconds it takes, that's not what makes Liam realize what's he's being offered, not what makes Liam's breath clog in his throat and burn in his lungs, not what makes Liam frown and feel his heart start to race, his mind in a whirl and his hands tighten on the bones of his knees— it's the stretch of the limb, an outstretched arm and a  _hand_ , floating in the mists of the cold, dark night, lingering inches from his face, waiting, waiting, waiting for  _him_.

(And he thinks, _this is real_.)

He doesn't reason with another choice, doesn't _think_ , before he's carefully, slowly, slipping his hand out from under the cuff of his jacket and hesitantly taking it, his palm small, cold and dirty contrasting against a warm, firm, stronger one; and the stranger doesn't pull back.

Liam knows it, but ignores as his mind screams ("You're the most  _selfish_  person on the face of this planet, Liam Payne.") at him over and over again. He briefly wonders, as the hand guides him through the streets, what he's done lately (or  _ever_ ) to receive such a wonderful dream.

 

 

-

 

 

-

 

 

-

 

 

"I'm Zayn," the stranger smiles, and Liam realizes that he's been awake all along.

 

 

-

 

 

-

 

 

-

 

 

"I'm Liam," he says, small and quiet and staring at the ground as if he's talking to them instead. He doesn't think it matters what his name is, doesn't think the stranger— _Zayn_ even heard him; but then his breath goes out of rhythm when Zayn squeezes his hand in silent acknowledgement that he did. He tries to grasp back, and lets his eyes land on the back of Zayn's shoes instead.

 

 

-

 

 

-

 

 

-

 

 

-

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

*

Liam feels like he finally belongs somewhere other than the night; and even though he left his home — _home_ , with scattered lights dancing freely, happily — they still smile at him every time he walks down the pavement, with shoes that fit and pants that go down to his heels and clothes that are warm.

And his hand in Zayn's comforting palm, fingers intertwined.

Liam smiles back.

 

 

 

 

(" _Thank you_.")


End file.
